Lozada–Oliva’s poem “My Spanish” imparts foresight to what future generations of Chinese might experience here in Canada as well. This is particularly relevant to me due to being a first generation Chinese, Canadian citizen myself. Unlike the author, instead of being born in Canada, I moved here with my family when I was just five years old. In these 14 years in Canada, I have lost so many aspects of my previous cultural practices and traditions. Even now, the loss of the foundation of my original spoken language speaks volumes to the length at which it is lost. Due to this poem, the previously unfathomable thought of the next generation’s personal identity struggles are now in light. Therefore, I emphasize and understand Lozada-Oliva’s struggles and grievances as a 2nd+ generation of Hispanic American, although it may be at a different level. I struggle with the answers whenever someone asks me if I am fluent in Mandarin or Cantonese because I honestly do not know. Just like Lozada-Oliva, my language is a worn out photo of the past. Half of it muscle memory, and the other half gobbled up by the media that I consumed.  Yet, I still remember like a foggy memory of the past, shining like the light at the end of the tunnel, but it is merely the start.